


off the clock

by sonatine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Childhood Friends, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 02:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7916977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I got something to say,” Steve says with his typical mulish stare—the exhausting, challenging one that Bucky is well familiar with—but it's a slow Monday evening and the shop is literally empty, so Bucky gestures with one hand. </p>
<p>“So say it,” Bucky prompts, trying not to lose his place counting the petty cash for the third time because <i>someone</i> keeps interrupting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	off the clock

i.

“I got something to say,” Steve says with his typical mulish stare—the exhausting, challenging one that Bucky is well familiar with—but it's a slow Monday evening and the shop is literally empty, so Bucky gestures with one hand.

“So say it,” Bucky prompts, trying not to lose his place counting the petty cash for the _third time_ because _someone_ keeps interrupting him.

“I think I'm bi. I mean, I am. Bisexual.”

Bucky loses his place counting again.

“Say something,” Steve snaps, five-four and slender and wound tight as a coil.

Bucky’s throat is dry as he tries to put together the most accepting and warm response possible— because he doesn't _care_ , it's _Steve_ , Steve can like whoever he wants. He's just—well frankly, he's shocked. Steve's never shown any interest in guys and Bucky just never considered—

“Congratulations?” is what Bucky ends up saying, and Steve snorts. Bucky realizes he still has a fist full of cash clutched in his left hand.

+

“You really had no idea?” Steve says, now relaxed and leaning against the wall on a tipped-back chair as usual.

“You're gonna break your neck,” Bucky says without looking up from the accounting book. His boss is seventy and old school and eccentric, which is probably why he's been trusting some eighteen-year-old kid to open and close his shop all summer.

“Least that’d get your attention.”

“I'm at _work_ , Steve.”

“You close in ten minutes. And the store is dead.”

“You,” Bucky points a pen at Steve, but it slips out of his hand and flies across the room. Steve sidles up and pulls a spare pen out Bucky’s hair—which was apparently holding up his bun.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, flustered, because Steve is standing _way_ closer than he would usually dare, and all of his summertime freckles have appeared. Bucky could name their constellations by heart.

“You were saying?” Steve says innocently.

“Uh. You have _been_ here when giant bus-fulls of tourists have shown up five minutes before close and then they take half an hour to each pick out what _specific_ reclaimed Brooklyn antique souvenir they want to take home. And been pretty useless, I might add.”

“Fury won't employ seventeen-year-olds,” Steve shrugs. “I didn't want to get you or him in trouble by technically working. That's called liability, Buck.”

“That's called ‘I think you're full of shit and also your birthday was last month.’”

“You'll never get into law school with that kind of mindset.”

Bucky cracks up. “Fuck off will I ever go to _law school,”_ and some of the subtle tension is cleared.

“But no,” he says, leaning back against the counter to stare at Steve, “I had zero clue.”

“And here I thought you were smart. Going to a fancy college and all that—”

“ _I’m_ going to one of a billion SUNYs, you're the one going to fancy _art school_ —”

“ROTC though,” Steve murmurs, touching a light hand to Bucky’s chest, in the place where a set of dogtags would fall.

“Free ride,” Bucky says, his mantra, and covers Steve’s hand with his own. “Hey. No one’s gonna deploy me for like four years at least. If ever. Plus I'll only be in the _reserves."_

“What’re you?” Steve blurts, and Bucky frowns down at him.

“Uh, army? Technically, for now. I mean I guess any one of the forces can—oh.” Bucky suddenly feels hot and is very aware that he's basically holding Steve’s hand. He drops it. “Um. I don't know. I mean. We know I like girls.”

“But you could like guys too,” Steve says dryly.

“I never thought about it,” Bucky says honestly. “I mean—” aside from laying side-by-side with your best friend in a bed, each jerking off, egging the other on—but it's not like they ever touched each _other’s_ dicks, or— “I've never even kissed a guy,” Bucky blurts. “So how would I know for sure?”

“I think if you’ve thought about it,” Steve says, dryer still, dry as sand, dry as Fury, “and the idea didn't gross you out: that makes you.”

“Yeah?” Bucky says, hoarse.

“I mean…” Jesus, that should be illegal, that little head tilt Steve does, looking up from under his eyelashes. “We could try and see. For science.”

“Scientific method?”

“Oh, sure. I'll be the control, you can kiss me, then kiss lots of other guys, then still kiss me in between—”

It's becoming a problem, staring at Steve’s lips while he's saying _kiss me_.

“What if that doesn't make me bi?” Bucky says, and he kind of hates how wishy-washy he sounds. “What if that just makes me— I dunno— Steve-sexual— _stop_ ,” he drawls, because Steve is doubled over laughing.

“I think you don't have to know for sure yet. Or maybe ever. We’re young, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grunts, and he fiddles with the edges of the black button-down shirt Fury makes him wear for work. Something about respectability and being professional, but really Fury probably just wants everyone around him to dress like he does.

Steve steps back and Bucky blurts, “But can—”

Steve waits patiently, making him say it out loud, the asshole.

“Maybe we can try anyway,” Bucky says nonchalantly.

Steve tilts his head, considering.

“I _guess._ I mean, you're _working_ and all—”

Bucky strides to the door, locks it, and flips the closed sign. “Off the clock.”

“Well, in that case.”

Steve is the one that looks nervous now, which gives Bucky the confidence to do what he does. He moves forward and rests his hands on Steve’s waist. Steve swallows and does the same, running his thumbs over Bucky’s hipbones.

Bucky dips his head and kisses Steve, waiting for some big gay revelation.

It doesn't happen.

He tries again. Steve’s mouth is soft, and when he sighs, something swoops inside Bucky’s stomach. He pulls Steve closer, hesitantly, as tries a little tongue, and ah, that's nice, he's always liked this—it's just like kissing girls—

Bucky pulls back. Steve stills, warily.

“You okay?” Steve says.

“Yeah.” Bucky slides his hands further around Steve’s back and pulls him flush against his chest. Steve’s breathing is uneven and he swallows again.

Bucky can't stop staring at Steve. _It's just like kissing girls._ Steve’s eyes are so blue, they've always been so beautiful, and his mouth, when it isn't firing off incendiary speech, is always smiling up at Bucky or encouraging him.

Bucky kisses him again, slower this time, more leisurely, and Steve moves his hands up the planes of Bucky’s back.

Bucky shivers. It's exactly the same. He thought kissing a guy would be different than kissing a girl, because it's _gay_ , but in fact it's exactly the same. It's lips and sighing and hearts beating and it's— it's two people kissing because they want each other—

Bucky slides a hand into Steve’s hair and rubs a thumb down his neck. Steve shivers and retaliates by biting gently into Bucky’s lip.

“Oh it's _on,_ ” Bucky murmurs, and Steve huffs a laugh. It is on.

+

“There's a nine-thirty showing at the theater down the street,” Steve says, leaving back in his chair against the wall.

“Won't make it,” Bucky says, losing count for the second time.

“It takes ten minutes to walk there.”

“And it takes me half an hour to close up properly.”

“You can skip the dusting, everything in here has a century of dust ground into it anyway—”

“I don't half-ass things, Steve.”

“Your last day is Thursday, _Bucky_ , and this is a limited release. The only other showtime is up in Harlem like tomorrow at 11am—”

“That's what you get for having pretentious taste in movies.” Bucky scribbles down the total in the accounting book before he forgets again.

“And we leave for college next week.”

Bucky stills. He glances up at Steve as he tallies for the week; maybe it's because they've been kissing and hanging out more and whatever lately, but Bucky can hear the undertone of distress in Steve’s voice.

“Let's go tomorrow then,” he says. “I can still make it here by 3. We’ll buy like a pound of gummy bears for the subway.”

Steve breaks into a giant smile. “Aren't you supposed to be hanging out with Dave?”

“Fuck Dave,” says Bucky.

Steve cackles. He drops his chair to the floor and slides over to the counter.

“Nah,” he murmurs, kissing Bucky gently. “Rather fuck _you._ ”

“Stevie,” Bucky huffs, sliding his hands under Steve’s waistband and onto the soft, soft skin beneath. “I'm at work. You can't just say shit like that when I'm at work. That's called a liability.”

“You close in ten minutes and the store is dead,” Steve murmurs, pulling him closer. God, his lips are so soft.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nipping at Steve’s full bottom lip one more time before pulling away. “But there is a giant glass storefront window right there.”

“Ah,” Steve says, pretending to ponder. “And anyone can look in?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says cautiously.

“Anyone could walk by and happen to glance in and see you sucking the face off some cute little blonde thing instead of manning your post?”

“You asshole—”

“So what you're saying,” Steve says with a sly smile, “is that if no one could see _me_ , there would be no problem.”

“Sure, if you were a ghost, maybe, or invisible—” Bucky trails off because Steve is dropping to his knees behind the counter, which is really a massive old nineteenth-century black oak chest of drawers. Tall enough that it reaches Bucky’s chest; and very solid and very opaque.

“Um. Stevie.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, ultra-casually, undoing the fly of Bucky’s black skinny jeans.

“Whatcha doing down there?”

“Finding a way around things,” Steve murmurs, running his hands up Bucky’s thighs. “Just stay where you are and pretend to do the accounts. No one can see me.”

“Jesus,” Bucky breathes. He is rock hard. “Are you sure?” This would be the first time they've willingly—

Steve flicks his gaze up. “I'm sure,” he says, and then in one fell swoop takes Bucky’s cock out of his boxers and into his mouth.

“ _Jesus_ —”

Steve pulls off. “This is only gonna work if you keep a straight face. Shut your mouth, for god’s sake, you look like someone is sucking you off behind the counter.”

He has to use his hand for a minute until Bucky stops laughing, then freezes. “There’s no security camera in here, is there?”

“One,” says Bucky. “In the front. Facing the safe. Behind the painting of a ship.”

“Geez,” Steve grins, “I should blow you anytime I need to know secrets, you'd give it all up, wouldn't you?”

“Only if you put your pretty mouth on my dick again,” and Jesus, where did _that_ come from?

Steve’s eyes darken and he sucks Bucky down again. It's all Bucky can do to keep a straight face. He clenches his jaw tight and focuses on breathing through his nose.

Steve is taking him apart slowly and steadily, hesitant and experimental at first, but then gaining more confidence, and Bucky feels like he’s going to fly apart at the seams. He clenches the pen in his hand, pretending to stare down at the accounting book, while anchoring himself upright with his other hand.

A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead and splashes onto the page. Then another. Bucky doesn't care. He's going to—he wants—he can't—

“Oh _god_ ,” is ripped from his throat and he's coming, he's coming down Steve’s throat. Steve gags a little, but swallows, then pulls off and stares up at him proudly.

“Good?” Steve says uncertainly. Bucky is still shaking.

“Good? That was—that was fuckin’—Jesus,” he says again, and quickly does his pants back up. “Get up here,” he says, and hauls Steve to his feet. He pushes Steve up against the wall, kissing him as hot and nasty as he knows how. Steve whimpers.

“Stay there,” Bucky whispers, and goes to the door. The street is dead outside as he flips the bolt and turns the sign to _closed._ He flicks off the lights for good measure.

“Lie down,” he says to Steve, returning,  “behind the desk.”

Steve obeys, eyes bright. “Why can't I just stand like you did?”

“Because _you_ don't work here,” Bucky says, cupping Steve through his jeans. Steve arches up into his grip. “It would look out of the ordinary. Liability,” he says, and taps the side of his head with his unoccupied hand.

“Taught you well,” Steve laughs, then gasps as Bucky works a hand into his boxers.

“One day,” Bucky says, circling the head of Steve’s cock with a thumb—it throbs under his touch, and Bucky is so turned on—this makes him something other than straight, right?—“when you're a hotshot lawyer, defender of the people or something, I'm gonna break into your fancy high rise city office one day and blow you underneath the desk, so that _you_ have a keep a straight face.”

“Seems fair,” Steve breathes, as Bucky gets impatient and pulls his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, fitting his mouth around Steve’s cock. He tastes a little salty and— Bucky does an experimental twist of his tongue and Steve groans and arches beneath him.

Bucky soothes a hand over Steve’s stomach and wonders how much of an idiot you have to be that you could have something this beautiful sitting in front of you for eighteen years and never once suspect that you might be bi.

 

ii.

Steve has spent so long counting, waiting, suffering through the daily mantra of _just till next week. just till next month,_ that suddenly it is two years later and he is still stuck in his miserable, soul-sucking job.

Something has to change, but nothing can happen immediately. His lease isn’t up for another ten months, none of his job applications had returned so much as an interview, and he has to pay rent and feed himself.

It takes eight more months, two failed interviews, and another grueling hiring process before he can finally leave his firm after four miserable years. He manually adds large red X’s on each day of his phone calendar before he quits, mentally slamming the door in the face of Rumlow & Associates. Pity. Rumlow & Rogers would've had such a nice ring. If only the senior partner wasn’t a sociopath.

He moves to a smaller law firm, still in the same city, still in the same generic apartment that is nothing special, but at least now he has a little more leeway to move. The first firm he worked for was corporate hell, the second he took after three months of unemployment and panic; he’s hoping the third time’s the charm.

He walks into his new firm of ten days, waving to Barton in the next room, who he still isn’t sure of, and to his boss Natasha, from whom he keeps at a wary distance, to find two people already sitting in his small office.

“You got clients!” Barton calls.

“I see that,” Steve says, walking to his desk and setting down his messenger bag. “Did you come to see me particularly or anyone at this … firm… ?”

“We came for Romanoff, but her fees are too high,” says the short man with a goatee. “I offered her a cut of our next patent, but she turned us down flat. Foolish. In ten years she’ll have made five times the fees she would be originally charging—”

Steve’s concentration has slipped entirely. For sitting before him, here, now, in the present, in the flesh, is Bucky Barnes.

+

The man with a goatee is still babbling. Bucky is staring at Steve like he’s the last square in a Sudoku puzzle.

Steve tries to give the talking man his undivided attention, but his eyes keep wandering back to Bucky of their own volition.

“Okay? Right? I have hard copies of all the plans, so you can—oh wait—shit, they're in the car, hang tight, I'll grab them,” and then the man with a goatee is gone.

Steve shakes his head slightly, feeling punch drunk.

“The Tasmanian Devil,” Bucky offers.

Steve blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Stark. He's always reminded me of the Tasmanian Devil. You know, always leaves in a whirlwind, with like papers and shit flying in his wake—”

Steve chuckles. “You remember watching all those Tex Avery cartoons on Saturday mornings at your Bubbe’s?” and Bucky sucks in a breath.  

“It _is_ you,” he breathes, leaning forward as if attached to a fishing wire. “I wasn't sure— the beard— and also you're like a fuckin’ giant now—”

“Objection,” Steve says dryly. “Exaggeration. It was a normal growth spurt.”

“You _shithead_ ,” Bucky says, and Stark flies back into the room, slamming a set of schematics onto Steve’s desk. Files and pens fly everywhere.

“Here, Rogers, you can clearly see—”

Steve smoothly interrupts and takes charge of the meeting from there. He takes their case. He’s new here and needs to build up a client base and good track record—and also he's not going to let Bucky Barnes slip through his fingers again.

+

The three months of legal proceedings wherein Steve can't officially fraternize with his clients outside of billable hours are torturous. Luckily Bucky’s business partner is Stark, for no one else would be self-absorbed enough not to notice Bucky and Steve sneaking glances at each other or hanging onto every scrap of personal info the other drops.

Once Stark mentions “Barnes’ girlfriend” and Steve freezes so suddenly that even Stark peers at him worriedly. Bucky awkwardly murmurs, “ _ex_ -girlfriend,” to which Stark defers—but Steve still feels ridiculous for the relief he felt.

He isn’t dating Bucky. He barely _knows_ Bucky anymore; and he certainly has no claim on him.

But the hasty way Bucky glanced at him after correcting Stark gives him hope.

Finally all the processing goes through; the other company trying to sue Stark LLC drops their claim and Tony leaps about, punching the air, as the three of them leave the giant boardroom in the massive corporate firm.

“It'll be Stark _Industries_ by this time five years from now, you wait,” says Stark.

“Not Stark and Barnes?” Steve says.

“I'm happy to stay behind the scenes,” Bucky says, and then they step out on the street. Tony waves his phone in Steve’s face.

“There; final payment gone through. Which means you can officially hang out with us, Counselor, so let's all go get a beer to celebrate, there’s a good happy hour bar with darts just around the corner, I'll text Romanoff—”

“You _said_ ,” Steve says, whirling on Bucky, “that there were little to no chances of you being deployed—”

“I can't control where the fucking _army_ sends me, Steve,” Bucky snaps back.

Steve’s heart stops in his chest. “Are you still—?”

“Sent,” Bucky amends. “No, got out four years ago. With a present,” he says, gesturing to his stiff and nearly immobile left arm.

“Good,” Steve says, breathing heavy. He loosens his tie, feeling uncomfortably hot. “Geez, though, you couldn't bother to tell me? I mean I know we lost touch during college, but I had to find out through fuckin’ _Hodge_ at _Duane Reade_ one Christmas that you were overseas—”

“I sent you a goddamn email, Steven,” Bucky snarls, “which was no small feat, I had to get your college email address through your _mom_ —”

“What?” Steve gapes at him.

They're still facing off on the sidewalk, two steps in front of the building, in the growing twilight.

Tony is watching, open-mouthed. “I take it you guys know each other?” he says.

“When was this?” Steve asks quietly.

“Before I left,” Bucky says, still sounding rankled. “Just after graduation, I guess.”

“I was locked out of my college account closed just after. I never bothered to retrieve the password—and then it closed—”

“I don't have a Facebook,” Bucky says. “I looked for you on Twitter—”

“My username is unrelated to my name. Figured I’d keep anti-government rants and Instagrams of oil paintings separate from my professional life—”

“And my Instagram is private—”

They smile, sheepishly, in tandem. Tony looks downright delighted.

“Jesus,” Bucky says. “Fifteen years?”

“Sixteen, specifically.”

“Ever married?” Bucky asks quietly.

“Divorced,” Steve replies, just as softly. “You?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Engaged once.”

“To Romanoff,” Tony supplies helpfully.

“Oh _god_ ,” Steve says, and Bucky dissolves into laughter.

“Seriously, what are the odds we both end up in bumfuck California?”

“Excuse you, USC gives generous financial packages.”

“Silicon Valley,” Bucky counters.

“Did you guys lose your virginity to each other?” Tony prods, and then squawks and claps his hands over his ears when they both respond, easily, “Yeah.”

“I'm texting Romanoff right now,” he says.

Bucky says, “Don't you dare,” and he is so suddenly chilling and intense that Steve freezes. Tony makes a face and puts his phone away; this is the first reminder Steve has that he and Bucky have done fifteen years of changing since the last time they properly saw each other.

“Happy hour with darts?” he says instead, and Tony immediately steers them down the street.

Bucky glances over Tony’s head to Steve, with a small and hopeful smile.

 

iii.

“Hey,” Steve says, looking up from his case files in surprise. “You done early?”

“It's ten p.m.,” Bucky says, dropping his backpack into the floor.

“Shit, really?” Steve cranes his neck to look out the small window behind him. Sure enough it's pitch black. “Sorry, did—what day is it? Did we have a date tonight?”

“No, that's tomorrow. Just wanted to see you. How’s the research going?”

“Fuckin’ _awful_ ,” Clint calls from next door.

“Natasha here too?”

“Not for long,” she calls from across the hall.

“You guys need thicker walls,” Bucky says.

“You're telling me,” Hill says from the office all the way by the entrance.

Steve shrugs ruefully.

“I won't interrupt you, but I got late-night reservations at a sushi place nearby if you think you can wrap things up in an hour.”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve says, smiling wanly. “I'm just gonna come back here afterwards. Make it forty-five minutes, and I'll take a break.”

“I'll sit here very quietly till then,” Bucky says in a _voice._ Steve feels like he’s missing out on an inside joke.

“Okay,” he says, watching bemusedly as Bucky circles around the desk. “You have the wifi password, right?”

“Yep,” Bucky says, and kneels on the floor in the space in between the desk and Steve’s chair, hidden from sight.

The memory explodes in Steve’s mind and his breath catches.

“I’ll be very quiet,” Bucky says again, with a wicked grin, “and not disturb you at all.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Steve says, gripping his pen tightly as he pretends to stare at the documents in front of him.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/149722287884/off-the-clock)


End file.
